but, honey, 13 is not a lucky number
by All Hail The Brain
Summary: [Co-Write With: The Bitch Who Died] 13 candles, 13 wishes — tut, tut, tut. Don't they know? Innocence rots and withers when the flames go out. (bulimia, substance abuse, incest) {thundercest} oneshot


Before the story, I'd like to thank Lucy (but you probably know her as Alison or Ali) for helping me write this.

* * *

13 candles, 13 wishes — tut, tut, tut. Don't they know? Innocence rots and withers when the flames go out.

* * *

Breathing in drops of the cluttered lies, she tries and she tries and (really, Mommy, your little girl tries) she fucking tries not to suffocate. But the venom (they like to call it gossip) is abundant and lethal and she forgets, how do you breathe oxygen? It's an ocean out there (pollution is everywhere she turns — lies, rumors, and, oh, the scandals) and yes, the sharks bite. (And maybe that wouldn't be so bad if they weren't _everywhere_ too.)

But she pinky promises that's not why her fingers slip down her throat. No one calls her fat, no one calls her stupid, no one calls her ugly, no one calls her annoying, and she most certainly doesn't have sick feelings for _him_ (lying is contagious, sweetie).

And those ugly, ugly words aren't on her mind as the ugly vomit swirls away.

She mumbles, "bye bye" the first few times because she's saying goodbye to so much more than just the fat.

* * *

It's all so busy yet grim, he lets himself get swept away by the buzzing and rattling, descending into the glass bottle and the burning in his throat. Hell, he pops a few caps of the prescriptions they hold out (it's always this strange, busy numbness he can't describe).

Deeper and deeper, fuck, it gets darker and darker with each passing second. But he swears (yes, he swears, little brother) that he sees a glimmer of light at the bottom of the bottle (and maybe it's a blinding white he needs to get the hell away from).

The wrong crowd surrounding him, the wrong liquid rushing down his throat, the wrong feelings arising when he can think straight. _God._ Is everything he does and is wrong?

But maybe he should just fixate on the pretty girl he swears is getting thinner.

Then again, isn't she what got him here in the first place? (Tsk, tsk, Maxy, blaming innocent little Phoebe _again?_)

* * *

Sing a lullaby, brush out your hair, slide your pretty little fingers down your throat. Routines are normal, she's slipped into hers. And look, she's getting prettier behind the makeup (she paces the emptying, only a little or her pretty hair will start to fall out and her teeth will rot and her skin will dry). It almost makes her smile — then she catches herself staring at him, wrong, that's sick and wrong.

Oh, how she wishes she could turn the silly little clock back and be 12 again. Expectations are only growing and perfect is only hurting more and more. (And she can't even achieve perfect with all that fat in her thighs.)

It all whirls down and she swears her head splits under all the lies and rumors and gossip and drama and those _disturbing_ little feelings she prays she'll grow out of.

She slips out and wonders how no one ever hears? Or maybe they do but perfect matters so much they say nothing. She wouldn't be surprised.

* * *

Disappointment — it's on the vocab that week. There's a list of synonyms after the definition; he swears to fucking God he sees "Max" on the list. But he blinks and it's gone.

(He should really just blame it on his hangover and the prescription bottles cluttered under his bed.)

Sinking lower and lower, how long before he reaches the bottom? Wait. Rock bottom was the first dream about her. All those bottled up feelings, his motive for the liquor down his throat and the pills in his palm, _are_ rock bottom.

Thunderman's own son, harboring these sinful feelings, what a disappointment.

That night, while he's sober, he decides that "middle school" is an ugly synonym for "the worst years yet." And when blackness arrives, and soft moans and whimpers that sound too alike to her are its plus one, he knows he's right.

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_reviews are appreciated_


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